“What the hell are your doing?”
“What’s it look like? I’m getting my bone on. Amsterdam, bra!”
“It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just spark up a joint on the street. You need to be in a licensed coffeehouse. See?” I pointed to a no smoking sign.
He walked over to the sign and studied it, turned around, the joint in his mouth. “Dude, take my picture! Instagram!” He squatted down in front of the sign and thrust double fuck-you fingers in the air. “Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy! USA! USA!”
I wondered how quickly I could ditch him.